


Perfect Love

by Dr_Cat



Category: WordGirl (Cartoon)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ice Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Cat
Summary: Failure was no stranger to Tobey, but maybe this was.
Kudos: 11





	Perfect Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story. They are copyright of Scholastic and Soup2Nuts.

_Laying down one's heart can be an especially dangerous undertaking, even for those who have faced life's perils and battlefields. If discovered, that person's innermost fears and desires will be fleshed out for the whole world to enjoy. They would devour it; utilize it for personal gain at that one's expense. Trust no one they say. However, on the reverse end of that spectrum, there is a nagging feeling . . . that yearning for someone to understand and share those deep parts of one's soul with. If it is never chanced on, one risks being neglected; feeling forgotten and unloved . . . He didn't want to be unlovable._

"Young man," Ms. Claire Macalister scolded with arms crossed and a scowl etched into her brow as she stared down at her ten-year-old son. Her gaze made the silent demand of 'You have ten seconds to explain yourself and it better be good'. To the young man's credit, he looked especially submissive, if not nervous, as the explanation of his behavior stood behind him in a blue uniform. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but, without much to say, he just tilted his head down to look at his shoes. Claire, in all her frustration and anger, still managed to keep a calm voice as she looked to the policeman.

"What happened officer . . . Murray?"

The man seemed to contemplate his answer for a moment as this was actually not the first time the boy had been caught by the police for the same offense. In fact, the speech was routine now as far as he was concerned and he could tell by the look on this mother's face that she was weary of these conversations too.

"Ma'am, he was caught in the park causing a disturbance at the Young Inventor's Challenge and Friendly Competition. It was one of those giant robots again, but this time he only damaged a temporary stage, some park benches, and a few trees. He also attacked Wordgirl but nobody decided to press any charges. However, you will be fined for the cleanup and damages. So I'm going to need you to sign here . . ." the officer went on as he brought out his pad and pen. While Claire was instructed on her rights and possible solutions to her son's issues, Tobey continued to stare down at the porch as he tried to distance himself from what was happening right now.

This morning he had been excited and proud of his plan to enter the little contest and maybe win the heart of a certain superhero by proving his prowess in all things mechanical and by being 'good'. He had actually done well in being nice and even kind to others. With politeness, considerate regard for the other competitors, humility, and people giving him the same courtesy back, for a moment, he genuinely found himself enjoying the thought of being 'good'.

Now he was standing on his front porch with a police escort telling his mother all the terrible things he had done. The hammer was going to fall and he knew he had the target over his head. He felt the tides of resentment rise within him as he thought back to the challenge. This was all those judges' fault. How could they pick such an imbecilic piece of scrap like that over his magnificent robot? It wasn't fair, it didn't make logical sense and it wasn't in the least bit tolerable. He worked hard doing it the right way, not cheating, not bullying, not sabotaging. He had the best invention and he lost! It was an outrage!

"It was about three-thirty ma'am. He was there from the beginning and I'm guessing, from what I witnessed, he had lost the competition . . ."

"I should have won!"

Both adults looked down at the child who was now teetering between the fury of losing an easy win and the fear of his mother's wrath. "I . . . I mean it wasn't fair . . . I was demonstrating how my robot could . . . you know it's funny, I thought that . . ." he sighed as he gave up on rummaging for an excuse as his mother's expression didn't waver from irritation. He half expected her to grab him by the ear as he shut his eyes and braced himself for the pain. Nothing came.

"Thank you for bringing him home," he heard her say. He opened his eyes to see the officer had made it down the steps and was now heading for his squad car.

"You're welcome, Ms. Macalister, take care."

Tobey turned to face the leaving law enforcement and silently wished the officer would stay a bit longer; he could use some police protection about now. He wanted to just stand on the front porch forever and avoid judgment, but a heavy hand on his shoulder reminded him otherwise. He hated this part. The long, loud speeches where punishments would be dealt out and his pleading would begin.

He allowed his mother to guide him inside, his stomach feeling like lead and his ears ringing from the silence of both house and parent. He didn't know which was worse, the actual lecture or the waiting for it. He made an aggravated face as he tried to get into his defensive child mindset. Claire remained quiet as she closed the door and continued in silence as she walked past him into the living room. He thought for sure she was going to ask him to sit on the sofa as she always did and then it would start, but she didn't. She just stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the forward wall. Tobey was puzzled but still wary.

The last time he was involved with the police, she had to come to pick him up from the station and go to court. His collaboration with Dr. Two-Brains warranted him more than just his usual mischief; it landed him with serious charges. His mother had really flown off the handle about it and, when he was honest with himself, she had good reason to be so upset. It wasn't a pleasant experience to go through the justice system, especially with her position in the law, and he felt . . . ashamed over the fact his mother had to deal with the outcome. He didn't want to feel guilty though.

He tried to stuff those emotions back down as he looked to his mother from the door. The ten-year-old was so sure that this quiet before the storm would pass and give way to the same reaction he got last time, the reaction he was used to. He swallowed hard. She still stood in a stoic trance of some kind, silent. His features changed from an irritated child in trouble to a boy concerned for his mom. He stood in silence as well, not knowing what to say or do. His mind reeled through past altercations trying to find a point of reference for this show of muteness now. Maybe she expected him to get on the couch without telling him.

In a rush to meet an expectation he was unsure of, he nearly tripped over the coffee table, but he caught the arm of the sofa and plopped down. He folded his hands in his lap, partly to look more innocent, and crossed his legs in front of him, trying to hide his unease. This action did get a response from his mother as she turned to look in his direction. In spite of what was going on, he just couldn't help but smile sheepishly. She sighed and turned back to face forward again, leaving Tobey to slowly frown in concern. This was taking too long; where was the fury.

He leaned over a bit trying to see the expression on her face, but couldn't and decided to sit back up and look around the room as if he had never seen it before. He stared at the pictures on the walls, the plants on the table, even the light fixture overhead. The tension in the room was starting to get to him as the awkward silence marched on. Why wasn't she saying anything? How long was this going to take? Was everything okay? He just had to say something.

"Mother?"

No reply. He stared at her not knowing how to continue from this point. Usually, she would ask 'why in the world did you do what you did' then he would explain and she would ground him telling him it wasn't a good enough reason, but . . . maybe she was waiting for him to start. Yes, that had to be it.

"I was just presenting my robot to the Inventor's challenge as I informed you this morning and it went smoothly . . ." he paused to gauge the way she was taking it before continuing, "It was simply just, well you see, this girl had a truly worthless doodad, the apple egg something or other, and I suspect she bribed the judges with free samples and they chose her as the winner. I brought in a representation of pure robotic genius and they didn't even give it a second glance. I think you'll agree with me that the whole affair was manipulated to paint me as the . . ."

Claire finally let out a weary sigh in which Tobey swiftly shut his mouth. He looked at her intensely, not realizing that he was holding his breath in the anticipation that she would say something. Even though he would never admit it, he feared his mother and rightly so. Whenever she frowned at him in a scowl she looked very formidable.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath before turning around to face her son. This was where she was supposed to address his behavior and try to convince him, through whatever means possible, that he couldn't do this anymore, but somehow she couldn't, not today. She opened her eyes and looked into his, not having the presence of mind to say anything.

Tobey for his part was starting to feel self-conscious under her gaze and lowered his head, rubbing his hands together, pretending they were in pain. Claire just didn't have an answer anymore. This had become so routine, so normal for them that she could even predict what he would do next; he would begin to bargain for . . .

"Mother? I'll stay in my room for the next . . . um, five weeks and do extra chores around the household if I can humbly ask to keep building . . . uh smaller robots by chance, yes, maybe, please?" he inquired as he looked to her with pleading eyes and clasped hands. It made her sick inside to see that things were just this bad and that nothing she had said or done up to this point had curved the conduct whatsoever. The sorrows of being a single parent with a destructive child were too much to deal with today, just too much.

"Theodore, I . . . can't do this anymore. I'm . . . tired son," she said weakly, turning to head for the stairs before continuing in an equally defeated tone, "your dinner is in the microwave. I'll be in my room."

Without another word, she headed up the stairs. Tobey was shocked.

"Mother?" he called after her timidly. What happened? She didn't respond and he didn't move. Did she just leave without punishing him? For Theodore Tobey Macalister III, this did not compute. He had always been punished after doing something naughty, for as long as he could remember. Maybe this was a new form of discipline he was unaware of, some kind of reverse psychology or possibly a trap. If he got up from the couch then she would storm down and give him what for. That had to be the answer because anything else meant . . . it didn't matter, because this was a trick.

"Very clever, mother, but it's not going to work," he chirped from his seat on the couch as he crossed his arms. A few moments passed, however, and there was still no verdict. The shock of not being punished was slowly being replaced by the hurt of being neglected. She looked disappointed in him and he was used to that, being it usually made him even more upset and angry at those who humiliated him and fueled a desire for revenge. In a way most children wouldn't admit to, he knew his mother cared about him when she punished him. In fact, for this particular family dynamic, it was the only time he felt he was getting his mother's undivided attention and therefore her love.

The ten-year-old felt betrayed in a sense as he sat alone on the sofa. He didn't get the respect and love he wanted today from being good and now he was losing the security of his mother's reproof even though he was bad. He growled in exasperation as he slammed his fist into the cushion. Sometimes he just hated it, all of it. He thought of himself as intelligent, superior, exceptional even, and yet it appeared nothing worked out for him. He hit the couch again. He wanted so much, but didn't know how to find it; sometimes making him wonder if he even knew what he wanted at all. He felt the same bottled up emotions from the park bubble up again now, causing a few tears to surge up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Hurt was so much easier to deal with when its release was anger.

"I'll show all of them who mocked me. That girl in the blue dress, the judges, the city, and especially Wordgirl. All I need to do is come up with a new . . ."

He heard his stomach growl in protest to his rant. He was hungry, but was it safe to get off the couch? His revenge plan was forgotten for the moment as he went back to the words of his mother.

"She said dinner was in the microwave, so I suppose she wanted me to retrieve it, right?" he asked himself as he looked back to the stairs then behind him to the kitchen. He slowly rose from the couch flinching at the squeaks and pings of the sofa as he did so. Even though it had been several minutes and it was completely illogical thinking, he still felt that his mother was going to come back down, see him off the lounge and descend on him with disciplinary action.

However, no heavy footfalls came down the stairs and he continued on his quest for food in the kitchen without incident. There was a plate in the microwave oven loaded with cooked asparagus, a side of mashed sweet potato, and baked chicken. The smell was overwhelmingly delicious as his hungry stomach begged to get started. He grinned in spite of himself as he grabbed a fork from the drawer and a juice cup from the fridge as he passed on through to the dining room. He set his plate down and looked up at the wall, which was a normal reaction, but this time he happened to notice the pictures on it.

They were photographs of him either receiving awards for past achievements or getting a department store picture his mother insisted on. The smile he had before fell away as he looked at the progression of photos on the wall. There were some taken when he was younger and . . . happier. Then there were some he wished he could take off the wall, but he knew his mother would notice.

"Why did she insist on so many silly pictures?" he griped. He blamed his disdain for them on the fact that cameras just didn't do him justice, but the real reason he hated the images was they captured him perfectly. A sad, angry, fearful mess-up.

He quickly glanced at his plate and sat down. He picked up his fork and moved around a few sprouts of asparagus, not feeling as hungry as he did before. He glanced back at the photos again, the ones that portrayed him as a prize-winner. Blue ribbons, trophies and award certificates being bestowed upon him whether he deserved them or not. He hated to lose even more than he hated his picture taken. His drive to be good at everything meant that he had to win; must win everything. If it meant cheating then he was going to cheat, but he had to be the best. 'That's how it operated anyway, right?' he thought. To win you have to take as much as you can by any means you can and give nothing back. But why did he have to be the greatest?

"Well, the power, of course," he answered himself as he finally took a bite of nourishment. Everyone wanted to feel powerful and that was what he was doing, obtaining power. To his mind, those with power got what they wanted most of the time. Political officials, business leaders, the wealthy, even celebrities had power; they had control. If he had this power, he too could have control which in turn meant security for him. A security that he would get what he wanted and needed. Security that people would listen to him, respect him, like him, and then he would feel loved. He had to have this assurance of security, so he had to win. Was it the end of the world if he lost? No, but it chipped away at his world and he couldn't take that lying down because if he didn't stand up for himself no one else would. He never gave these inner struggles much thought though as he perceived it as just the way things were.

"Ten after five, hmm? There's still ample time to work on a few new designs for a more impressive robot if that's what I really feel like doing."

He already knew the day was wasted and that even though his mother hadn't discussed any penalties she would still be upset if he dabbled with his robots or left the house now.

"How could I have lost? I was poised to win; I don't understand what went wrong. I planned everything; pretend to turn good, win the contest, and in turn win the heart of Wordgirl. It was going so well. I know if I had won I would have had her convinced," he growled as he slammed a palm on the table, and then quickly retracted it in pain, "Ow."

He nursed his hand before clearing his plate and tossing it into the sink where he noticed the pots and pans stacked up. He decided to do the dishes, try and stay in what little was left of his mother's good graces. He kept replaying the day's events in his head as he did so, wishing that there would have been a different outcome. He sighed at the thought of the city's superhero; how much he adored yet despised her.

"She is intelligent, dauntless, strong, and beautiful. Clever, witty, well-spoken, and beautiful. Graceful, enchanting, oh, and, yes, beautiful," he listed dreamily. How could he resist her charm or pull away from her strength of presence?

"But at the same time she makes me look ridiculous, overpowers any attempt on my part to win, destroys my robots constantly and her silly sidekick monkey is just insufferable," he ranted bitterly. How can he find a way to fight against her mastery or snatch victory away from her? And that was the question, wasn't it? How could he like her one moment and not stand her the next?

He put the last dish away as he pondered this love-hate relationship. Without knowing it, he was dwelling on a problem old as time itself. His struggle for power and control stemmed from the condition of wanting to love and be loved. He wanted to be respected and appreciated, but the very methods he thought would bring him closer to his goals were pushing them further and further away. The more distance he saw between him and his achievements the harder he tried, similar to a fish trying to break free from the net, the harder it wrestles the more ensnared it becomes. He was trapped in his thinking. He had formed the pattern of impulse decisions and mischievous planning by finding enjoyment in having the fear of others if he couldn't have their respect.

However, Wordgirl had thrown the proverbial wrench into the works. He wanted her respect but not in the form of fear. Then there was the question of why he liked her in the first place, besides the obvious things. She was a superhero with right on her side and good in mind. She was the opposite of him yet, when he had spent a day with her he found so many things they had in common. So as Tobey walked on to his room thinking about Wordgirl, his mind fluxed on how to get back at her and spend yet another outing with her.

"Mm, there has to be a way I can do this, right? There has to be a way to do both; be who I am and . . . well have Wordgirl too," he mused to himself. Yet, did he want to change Wordgirl? He had tried before. No, that wasn't what he wanted, but today proved that he couldn't change either, right? Right? He wanted this so badly that he didn't know what to do sometimes. Somehow though, he knew it wasn't possible for Wordgirl to like him, let alone love him, and that his pursuit was in vain, but he just couldn't admit that to himself.

"Of course she's said some things, but she has never said in any certain terms that she didn't like me," he stated with a certain amount of hope. But that's all he had at this point, a false hope. If he ever asked she could reject him . . . he wouldn't be able to stand outright rejection.

"Not that she would, I'm irresistibly handsome and wickedly smart, but still . . ."

He laid down on his bed, resting his arms behind his head. He had to get Wordgirl to admit she liked him first. That was the only way to secure success and that is the battle plan that he has tried to do time and again. To date, she refused shows of strength and intellectual prowess, forcing her to admit defeat didn't work, trying to be good only to have it just . . . nothing worked. Maybe, he should give up.

"No!" He sat up, thrusting a finger up dramatically in the air, "I, Tobey Macalister, am not a quitter. I need to come up with a different strategy is all."

He hopped out of bed and began pacing the room. He could win this fight if he remained persistent. That was one thing he could tack onto his character, tenacity. He wasn't a quitter, sore loser, yes, but not a quitter. So after a few minutes of babbling to himself about schemes and grandiose plans of vengeance, he settled on trying the subtle approach again. Today didn't go according to plan, but it had worked in keeping her close to him in a non-violent way.

"Mm, it is easier to converse with her when she's not tearing the head off one of my robots, now isn't it?" he mused. But then again, he did want to avenge his pride and dignity. So, to the work desk he went jotting down some new plans for victory and revenge when, as if the thought had dropped out of the sky, he desired something sweet. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he had forgotten dessert after dinner. If he wanted it he had better act quickly because he was certain any kind of sweets would be docked as a part of his belated punishment. With surprising speed, he was in the freezer digging to the back trying to find the frozen treat he enjoyed the most, ice cream.

He pulled out the carton with a triumphant smile and popped the lid off to reveal the contents. It was almost empty, but there was still well over enough for a ten-year-old boy who knew this could be his last dessert for a week. He glanced side to side, a habit that comes with being mischievous, before grinning and racing to the drawer to get a spoon. Well-mannered he was, but a child he was still more. He gladly spooned out the remaining ice cream into his mouth and tossed the empty carton into the trash; then on second thought, buried the container deeper down before sticking the spoon in the dishwasher. No one would be the wiser.

Tobey felt accomplished in his small feat and decided to head back to his room for a bit more pondering; it was quiet enough. Usually, he could hear his mother walk around upstairs, but not a sound was heard except for the normal household noises. He frowned a bit and began heading towards his room, passing the staircase on his way. Gentle murmurings echoed down the stairwell suddenly, startling the boy. He turned around sharply, heart-thumping, expecting to see his mother at the top of the stairs. She wasn't and he placed a hand to his heart taking a deep breath. Even though it gave him a start, his curiosity was peaked.

He made his way over to the front of the stairs and placed a hand on the rail as if going for an attempt to climb them. He stopped. They seemed higher up now; more dangerous for some reason. An atmosphere of foreboding surrounded him petitioning two possibilities, one of safety and one of inquiry. His mother was up there and she was not too happy with him right now. As long as she stayed up there and he stayed down here there was no consequence. But, the soft noise came again; a faint sound that seemed to call for him to come up and find out what was wrong.

He raised a foot up, daring to take on the first step, but his foot stopped, hovering over the first stair . . . he put it down. The next step was easier and then the next. Soon he was at the top of the stairs, keeping his footfalls as silent as possible while heading for the other quiet noise, his mother's slightly open bedroom door.

Claire sat quietly at her virtually empty desk that occupied a corner of her room. She had a more impressive workstation at the D.A.'s office, but it paled in comparison to the value of the desk before her now. Working hard was what she did best, but she had also invested a lot of time sitting here, thinking. She had managed to keep the job she loved, secure a good house, and profit in a way that provided all the creature comforts and necessities of a household. But as she stared at a picture propped up on her desk she remembered something else, her dream.

She didn't like to be reminded of those things past, but it was growing harder to avoid, more difficult to ward off. She wished she could turn back the hands of time, but she knew better than to dwell on whimsical thinking like that. It was done, he was gone. He was gone and not coming back, there was nothing to help that. It hurt some days more than others. Sometimes it was okay, but today it wasn't. The facts were this; she was a single parent now with responsibilities, duty . . . and work . . . She looked back at the photograph. Why did he have to go? Why couldn't it be the way it was? What did she want? A family. That was her dream; a dream, she realized, was falling apart.

Claire grabbed another image, one with her and Tobey, age nine. He was so upset that day. He did not want his picture taken, as was his habit, but . . . he finally conceded. The picture was miserable at best, she knew that. Neither of them was smiling and it felt so . . . cold. She knew she was withdrawn from her son and, in return, he was equally as distant. It was her fault, she saw that now. It was so much easier back then to just shut down, pull back and avoid the pain. Now, it was coming back to haunt her. She stared at her son in the photo, her mind whirling with memories, and her eyes brimming with unshed tears. How many times did he reach out, arms outstretched, and she missed it? How many times did he ask, eyes pleading, and she didn't listen? Even if it was just once, she failed to perceive it one too many times.

Now, with his crossed arms and stubborn eyes that only wavered in the face of punishment, he was running around, building large attack robots, getting in trouble with the law and . . . what had she done? How could she fix it? How could she gain back what was lost? How could she let it go for this long? Instantly, she had the answer to that question and she couldn't hold it back any longer. Silent tears began pouring out over the picture as she tried with a free hand to wipe them back. She loved her son, wanted to love him but how could she when she couldn't love herself. Self-doubt stared back at her in the mirror every day, low self-esteem accused her from looks she received from others and criticism lived in the words her family had instilled in her since she was little 'Only your best is good enough.'

Well, what was her best now? She graduated from a well-esteemed university, landed a career almost immediately, and had the praise of her family and friends. Ah, her family, a well to do bunch that had supported her all the way through life, pushing her to do her best and pursue greatness. But what they wanted for her was not always what she wanted. There was one aspect of her life that her family did not approve of and that was her relationship with Theodore Tobey Macalister Jr. She remembered all the long discussions that became heated debates which then turned into flat-out arguments. However, she also knew how strong her and Theo's love were for each other and that led to the two being engaged and later married.

Theodore tried to press into the favor of her family, but due to his lackluster background and less than stellar credentials, he was rejected and it came down to a choice. The support of her family or the love of her husband. She chose the latter and never looked back. Even now, she didn't regret the decision made, for it had been the most wonderful years of her life. But it still hurt to know that her family had chosen to omit them from their lives and it wounded her even more to know they automatically did the same to her son. This caused more tears to stream out as she set the picture down. The pain and stress she had gone through sense . . . her loss was unbearable at times and her family still refused to have anything to do with them.

In fact, the only person she could rely on was an elderly woman who had helped her husband through rough times in his life and now continued to do the same for her and her son. She was known to the family as Grammy Sweet Mum Mums. When Tobey was younger and she was still in mourning, Grammy was there to babysit or relieve her of certain duties so she could focus on making it through. The old woman was sweet and kind, full of warmth and compassion. It was no wonder Tobey took a liking to her on that first day.

He was three at the time and very shy, terrified of strangers, and constantly asking where daddy was. She had tried to leave him with babysitters and daycare centers so she could go to work, but he would pitch a fit and, with his intelligence, it wouldn't be long until she would get a call to please come and pick up her son. One time he had pulled the fire alarm, followed the train of exiting students, and made a break for it once outside the gate. Luckily the teachers caught him, lectured him, and repeated the cycle as he pulled the alarm again. The mother was at wit's end as her child tugged on her at one end and her job threatened at the other.

Finally, she got the courage to call her husband's old friend and without needing an explanation Ms. Rayborn was there at her doorstep. She remembered that first day leaving Tobey with her.

" _Are you sure you got him?" she said to the elderly lady as her son cried wildly from his playpen._

" _I'm sure now, sweetheart," she replied with her thick British accent. Tobey cried even louder once he heard the door open from his spot in the living room. He reached out to his mother screaming that she not leave him_ , _trying his best to use his words to communicate what he wanted._ _He was so persuasive with his arguments of 'Please don't leave me, mommy. I'm sorry, I'm sorry' that she turned around, tears in her eyes, not knowing what to do._

" _I can't leave him. He's so . . . he thinks I'm leaving him. Like I won't come back, like his father."_

" _Listen to me, Claire."_

_The mother did so._

_"I know this is hard on the both of you and that it's even frightful sometimes, I'm not here to argue that, deary. But there is one thing I know, there's a mother who needs to get to work, a boy that will be safe until her return and a God who loves them both. One day at a time, okay, sweetheart."_

_Claire smiled despite the tears in her eyes and the squalling of her son._

She remembered coming home that evening and finding Tobey curled up on the couch next to Ms. Rayborn listening intently as the old woman read him a book using funny voices to make him laugh. She remembered her son jumpy up at the sight of her, running over and hugging her legs before reaching up to be held. Thus returned a sense of normalcy to their lives. Tobey saw Ms. Rayborn as a grandmother and even emulated the accent to sound like her. But the years passed and Grammy grew older and her babysitting time grew shorter. Tobey was six, Claire had reached her career goals and Ms. Rayborn needed more and more rest.

Claire knew it wouldn't last forever and, so, when she received a call from her dear, elderly friend one day she relieved her of that duty, assuring the old woman that, no, it was okay and, yes, she could always drop by for a visit. Tobey was upset, not just about this she knew, but it was the icing on the cake. He was having a hard time making friends, staying within school guidelines and though he didn't talk about it she knew he was still missing his father. She was still missing him too.

Finally, she found a positive outlet for him. He loved to compete in the academic realm, so science fairs, spelling bees, and contests of every kind became central to the family. He was proud of his work and she was proud of his progress. Sure there were a few problems, like the time he built an electric force field, but she let it slide figuring he was doing so well everywhere else. It seemed to be working, but she knew there were flaws in this. They had gone to museums, libraries, planetariums, even took a trip to the Kennedy Space Center one summer, but work still consumed a large part of her life and he hated to lose out to her job. Robotics stole his interest soon and his sportsmanship went down the tubes with it, using the metal men to achieve goals he normally wouldn't have reached. At nine years old things changed for the worse yet. Huge destructive robots seemed to be his big obsession along with being enchanted by the city's superhero, Wordgirl.

He was so smart and capable of large stunts that sometimes it was hard to remember he was still a child. Where other little boys would just throw a tantrum or play a prank, Tobey had the capability of destroying whole buildings and, dare it never happen, seriously hurt someone. And that's where she landed herself today. He was her baby, needing love and discipline and she didn't know how to give it anymore. He could kill someone and not even fully understand the ramifications of that and it grieved her tremendously.

"God, please help my son, please?" she sobbed bitterly into her hands once again not able to hold back the anxiety and anguish she felt. The sound of the door creaking open a bit jolted her to attention as did the sound of feet scuffling quickly down the hall.

"Tobey?"

"Almost there, almost there, almost there!" the ten-year-old breathed as he ran for his room with everything his little legs could muster. He had no other reason to run other than the fear that he had done something terribly wrong. He had to because he was terrified when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He made it to his open door, in essences diving in, before shutting it swiftly behind him. He put his back to the door, leaning on it for support as his heart raced in his chest. He raised a hand and allowed it to hover over the handle. Should he lock it? He heard his mother coming, her steps thundering in his ears. His mind wavered between hiding in the closet or securing the fort, so to speak, but his strength failed him. Regardless of which action he wanted to choose, his body was frozen in panic.

He had never seen his mother cry like that before. It scared him. There was a part of him that wanted to ask her what was wrong while another part wanted to cry too, but fear seemed to win over concern and sadness. The fear of failure, the fear of being forgotten, and the fear of being rejected were nothing compared to that of losing his mother's protection. She was always composed, always in control and had that command of presence . . . he needed. He needed routine; things to go the way they always did. He needed that assurance. What he saw now wasn't normal and he didn't like it.

The door handle wiggled and his breathing quickened. He jumped away from the door as if it were white-hot. With a sharp gasp, he looked up as the door opened. His mother's face was unreadable to him like before. Was she angry, disappointed, upset, worried; he just didn't know therefore didn't know how to act. She stepped into the room and he flinched. He knew he had done something wrong and now he wished he hadn't. How could he feel otherwise? He shut his eyes tightly, still defying tears and waiting for the all too familiar tug on the ear.

A cool hand went through his hair. He was stunned. It happened again, sending a tingling sensation throughout his body. He opened his eyes to reveal that his mother was indeed caressing his head; something she hadn't done in a long time. In fact, the only time he remembered receiving such affection was when he was sick. Normally, he would have pulled away, but his defenses were down under the circumstances. The boy looked up at her with confused eyes while the woman looked down at him with a tear-stained face. For just a moment, mother and son saw each other and themselves as two hurting people.

With emotions of guilt, fear, and failure bubbling back up to the surface, Tobey looked down to the floor and began crying. He caused his mother's tears . . . shameful, he would never get Wordgirl's, or anyone's, sentiments . . . rejected, he could never win against anyone without cheating . . . loser. Anger spent, all he had left within him was pain and Claire saw that. She stooped down to a knee and without hesitation pulled the child into a gentle embrace. He was tense, shocked by the sudden contact, but too wounded to draw back. He would never admit it, never, but he wanted a hug, needed a hug. So with nothing else to lose, he wrapped his arms around his mother's neck and hugged back, resting his head on her shoulder.

Claire strengthened the embrace and gave her son a few pats on the back, feeling the dampness of his tears soak through her jacket. He rarely cried and she didn't cry often anymore either, but today was different for both of them. She had a decision to make. This was her baby, and he was heading towards a path of self-destruction. Tobey, for his part, didn't want to make his mother cry, he was sorry for that. He began to entertain the thought of making changes in the way he did things. It appeared that their shared time was having a calming effect on them both, a catharsis they had needed for a long time.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry too, Tobey," she responded, equally as quiet.

The moment lasted for a short while longer before they pulled away and wiped away all traces of sadness and distress. But, as with most who are in pain, it is easier to remain where one is than try to find the path that leads out. Only until the agony becomes too great will they take the first step. Their former attitudes were returning quickly, a deadly poison of hurt and regret but, this time, laced with something hopeful, a bit more understanding and compassion.

"You know what this means though, Tobey; you're grounded with a restriction on privileges. That includes the robots."

"Yes, mother," he said in his normal voice. He watched as she headed for the door of his room and stopped. She turned back to face him.

"Yes?" he asked self-consciously.

"Tobey," she paused not knowing exactly how to word this to a ten-year-old, or if she should say anything at all, "No more getting into trouble by wrecking the city. You could have seriously injured someone. Promise me."

The young boy's thoughts went to how he had nearly crushed Wordgirl earlier, not to mention the others he could have crushed under the robot's feet. He never gave it much thought when it was happening. The empathy for their plight was warring against the selfish desires he had to win and conquer. He had to use big robots if he wanted attention but was negative attention what he wanted? A promise to his mother at this point would be emotionally binding and difficult to break but to refuse it would be putting a knife through both their suffered hearts.

"Okay, mother. I promise."

She smiled and so did he, feeling surprisingly better now. She walked out, closing the door behind her and leaving Tobey to his decision. The boy walked over to his desk, plans of revenge sketched out and awaiting implementation.

He reached down, gathered the plans in his hands and slowly, but firmly, tore them in half.

_There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. 1 John 4:18_


End file.
